I got my dog’s teeth cleaned!!!!!!!!!
You may be saying to yourself, “So fricking what?” And I can understand how you might not be as thrilled about this as I am. You may very well live a much more exciting live than I do, and have exotic adventures and lots of important friends you meet at wonderful places for hilarious fun. Getting a dog’s teeth cleaned may be at the very bottom of your list of interesting ways to spend your time.
However, it may pique your interest to know that I got my dog’s teeth clean without anesthesia.
“So fricking what” you ask. Is that all you know how to say? If you’d quit interrupting I’ll explain.
Have you ever heard of “bad breath in dogs?” It’s a medical condition brought about because dogs will eat anything – the more dead, the better. Woo-wee! But they also get bad breath because they won’t brush their teeth. They lack digits to hold the toothbrush, but even if they had hands, they would not use them for brushing their teeth, they’d use them to lift other dogs’ tails for easier sniffing. Or to reach up on your dining room table and grab the Thanksgiving turkey by the leg and fly off down the hallway with it to their lair.
Furthermore, they will fight your attempts to brush their teeth for them. They would prefer that you take that doggie toothbrush and shove it up your….. I know this because my dog has given me that “you know where you can shove that toothbrush” looks every time I’ve tried to brush her teeth.
Over time, the stuff on a dog’s teeth, called tartar, hardens and bonds to its pearly whites like brown cement. Around her in Portland, OR vets charge you $350 to chisel that stuff off, and they want to put the dog under general anesthesia to do it because that’s the only way a dog will put up with it.
But a few days ago I discovered a place that cleans teeth without putting the dog to sleep. Apparently they accomplish this by laying the dog in their lap as they sit on the floor. The secret is getting you out of the room and putting a towel over the dog.
Don’t ask me how it works, but when that dog was done in one hour, she had white teeth and I had an extra $200 in my pocket. I highly recommend this for your dog or cat – Apollo Pet Care did my dog’s teeth – 1-800-285-6204. They are in Washington and Oregon.
This is not a shameless commercial but a recommendation for people who, in my opinion, granted me a miracle. Now I don’t have to worry and fret about this any more.
And you’re wrong to assume I have a boring life. I got her teeth done on Friday just before we left town, and it was the highlight of my weekend – three days which included going up to Seattle and watching the Ducks beat the Huskies at the last game ever to be played in the Huskies old stadium before they tear it down, going out for Sushi at Umi’s, watching U Dub’s crew team glide through misty water under the salmon glow of early morning, eating an amazing lava cake at the Tap House Grill, walking around Bellevue before sunrise, and staying with our dear friends for two nights at the Oakwood (great deal there, by the way on a 2 bedroom condo) – none of these things came even CLOSE to how exhilarated I was about finally getting that dog’s teeth cleaned. It’s something I will cherish always.
Showing posts with label pet humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pet humor. Show all posts
Monday, November 7, 2011
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Lamenting the Foulness of Life
My dog’s stomach is growling. She had a bunch o’ rib bones and now I can expect puddles of barbecued barf in my bed tonight. Disgusting, huh?
This dog weighs ten pounds and is by my side night and day. She’s laying snugged up next to me on the couch while I type, right in the path of the 140ยบ heat blowing out of my laptop. It’s like someone strapped a heating pad to my leg.
I generally like heat – love those seat warmers. My cousin always wants to drive my car when we go somewhere and all winter I’ve got my seat warmer on. He’ll be sitting there in the driver’s seat, talking about his latest BM.
“Boys, you should have seen what came out of me this morning.” He says boys no matter what the gender of his audience is. “Black as coal and all of 12 inches, coiled up like a cobra, part of it floating like it was ready to strike.”
“I do NOT need to hear about this,” I say.
“It was remarkable,” he’ll say. “Never seen anything like it. I got a picture of it here on my phone – take a look, you won’t believe it. Here, see? Why is it so friggin’ hot? My nuts are roastin’!”
He says it every time we’re in the car – like the seat has launched some sneak attack against his scrotum.
Worse than his stories are when my dog barfs in the car while she’s sitting on my lap. I hear this little burbing noise and a nano-second later she heaves and there’s a puddle the size of a spilled glass of milk on my thigh – slimy and the color of whatever nauseating thing she ate out in our woods. Sometimes it grass in a clear slime like some kind of Tai pad lemongrass soup. Others it’s brown and lumpy.
The worse part is that you can’t do anything about it. I’ll be on the freeway going 65 mph when she Ralphs on me. First the sound, and I try to get her off my lap but I’m never fast enough. Just about the time I get my hands on her waist and snatch her up, I feel the warmth on my thigh, then the wetness. Anyone who’s had a baby knows what that feeling is like. That baby’s happy and coochie cooing one minute, and the next minute you’ve got this foul ooze traveling south down your silk blouse.
At least the dog barf doesn’t smell so bad. You talk about smells, I went into the ladies bathroom at the permit office the other day. Oh my gosh! Women’s bathrooms after they’ve had their morning coffee are worse than paper factories. Woo-whee! Brings tears to the eyes.
I don’t know what’s made me write about these things. Oh yeah, it was that dog’s growling belly. It’s my lament of the unwelcome bodily functions I encounter daily.
This dog weighs ten pounds and is by my side night and day. She’s laying snugged up next to me on the couch while I type, right in the path of the 140ยบ heat blowing out of my laptop. It’s like someone strapped a heating pad to my leg.
I generally like heat – love those seat warmers. My cousin always wants to drive my car when we go somewhere and all winter I’ve got my seat warmer on. He’ll be sitting there in the driver’s seat, talking about his latest BM.
“Boys, you should have seen what came out of me this morning.” He says boys no matter what the gender of his audience is. “Black as coal and all of 12 inches, coiled up like a cobra, part of it floating like it was ready to strike.”
“I do NOT need to hear about this,” I say.
“It was remarkable,” he’ll say. “Never seen anything like it. I got a picture of it here on my phone – take a look, you won’t believe it. Here, see? Why is it so friggin’ hot? My nuts are roastin’!”
He says it every time we’re in the car – like the seat has launched some sneak attack against his scrotum.
Worse than his stories are when my dog barfs in the car while she’s sitting on my lap. I hear this little burbing noise and a nano-second later she heaves and there’s a puddle the size of a spilled glass of milk on my thigh – slimy and the color of whatever nauseating thing she ate out in our woods. Sometimes it grass in a clear slime like some kind of Tai pad lemongrass soup. Others it’s brown and lumpy.
The worse part is that you can’t do anything about it. I’ll be on the freeway going 65 mph when she Ralphs on me. First the sound, and I try to get her off my lap but I’m never fast enough. Just about the time I get my hands on her waist and snatch her up, I feel the warmth on my thigh, then the wetness. Anyone who’s had a baby knows what that feeling is like. That baby’s happy and coochie cooing one minute, and the next minute you’ve got this foul ooze traveling south down your silk blouse.
At least the dog barf doesn’t smell so bad. You talk about smells, I went into the ladies bathroom at the permit office the other day. Oh my gosh! Women’s bathrooms after they’ve had their morning coffee are worse than paper factories. Woo-whee! Brings tears to the eyes.
I don’t know what’s made me write about these things. Oh yeah, it was that dog’s growling belly. It’s my lament of the unwelcome bodily functions I encounter daily.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
I Admit I'm a Bag Lady
I can’t leave my dog in my Prius and lock it. I discovered this when I ran into the post office and a couple of minutes later I heard a car alarm going off. It didn’t stop and I was cursing the idiot driver when I went out to the parking lot and saw my car lights flashing.
When I called the dealer about it, he said to bring it in, but apparently the alarm system goes off when the car is locked and something moves inside. I guess there’s a good reason for that, but I can’t figure out what. Suppose you want to leave your teenage daughter in the car because she refused to be seen in the grocery store with you, but you wanted her to be safe. She’d have to sit like a sphinx until you came back. Unfortunately, the repairperson didn’t know how to fix it.
For those of you who are tisk-tisking me for leaving my dog in the car in the first place, let me assure you that I am putting her in no danger. I’ve left her in the car with the motor running, unlocked, and the air conditioner on, when I just dash in to get something somewhere. You can’t tell the car is on - it’s so quiet with that hybrid electric motor.
When I have to go into a store for a while, I take the dog in with me. I made this black bag that I put her in. It looks like a worn out, tacky handbag. That dog has gone into restaurants, amusement parks, movies, bars, and other places I can’t think of right now.
She loves it in there. If I put the bag on the floor, she tries to climb in it – even if we’re not going anywhere. It’s got a wood bottom with a cushy pad so she just lies down and enjoys getting toted around. When I go to the bathroom I hang her on the door hook so the top won’t fold down on her.
She’s a smart little pooch, so we taught her to be quiet in the bag by saying, “No barking.” However, there were some glitches. Once when we first started using it, we were on vacation and found a church on Sunday morning. She was quiet as a, ahem, church mouse until we went to communion. We left her in the pew, and when we were walking down the aisle on the way to the altar, we heard her whimpering. The kids started poking me (as if I hadn’t heard!), and giggling into their hands. The whining got louder. I guess she thought we’d left her. We got communion and raced back to the pew, petting the outside of the bag to calm her down. After that no one left her alone while she was in the bag.
As I type this I realize that you may be thinking, “What kind of nut carries a dog around with them in a bag?” Well, I’m that kind of nut – l’ll admit I’ve always been a little crazy. But if you could see how pitiful that dog looks when you’re getting ready to go out the door and she doesn’t get to go, you’d be bagging her too.
Today I noticed the bag is getting pretty ratty. She’s poked a couple of holes in it, and the sun has faded some of the fine black mesh. It’s trashy, but I haven’t found a replacement and with this much ventilation that looks like a handbag and doesn’t show the dog in it. It helps that it’s black and so is she.
One problem is that I can’t take a purse with me, because the bag is supposed to be my purse. So I have to pack a credit card in my pocket for purchases. It looks pretty stupid, but I haven’t been caught yet. Knock on wood.
When I called the dealer about it, he said to bring it in, but apparently the alarm system goes off when the car is locked and something moves inside. I guess there’s a good reason for that, but I can’t figure out what. Suppose you want to leave your teenage daughter in the car because she refused to be seen in the grocery store with you, but you wanted her to be safe. She’d have to sit like a sphinx until you came back. Unfortunately, the repairperson didn’t know how to fix it.
For those of you who are tisk-tisking me for leaving my dog in the car in the first place, let me assure you that I am putting her in no danger. I’ve left her in the car with the motor running, unlocked, and the air conditioner on, when I just dash in to get something somewhere. You can’t tell the car is on - it’s so quiet with that hybrid electric motor.
When I have to go into a store for a while, I take the dog in with me. I made this black bag that I put her in. It looks like a worn out, tacky handbag. That dog has gone into restaurants, amusement parks, movies, bars, and other places I can’t think of right now.
She loves it in there. If I put the bag on the floor, she tries to climb in it – even if we’re not going anywhere. It’s got a wood bottom with a cushy pad so she just lies down and enjoys getting toted around. When I go to the bathroom I hang her on the door hook so the top won’t fold down on her.
She’s a smart little pooch, so we taught her to be quiet in the bag by saying, “No barking.” However, there were some glitches. Once when we first started using it, we were on vacation and found a church on Sunday morning. She was quiet as a, ahem, church mouse until we went to communion. We left her in the pew, and when we were walking down the aisle on the way to the altar, we heard her whimpering. The kids started poking me (as if I hadn’t heard!), and giggling into their hands. The whining got louder. I guess she thought we’d left her. We got communion and raced back to the pew, petting the outside of the bag to calm her down. After that no one left her alone while she was in the bag.
As I type this I realize that you may be thinking, “What kind of nut carries a dog around with them in a bag?” Well, I’m that kind of nut – l’ll admit I’ve always been a little crazy. But if you could see how pitiful that dog looks when you’re getting ready to go out the door and she doesn’t get to go, you’d be bagging her too.
Today I noticed the bag is getting pretty ratty. She’s poked a couple of holes in it, and the sun has faded some of the fine black mesh. It’s trashy, but I haven’t found a replacement and with this much ventilation that looks like a handbag and doesn’t show the dog in it. It helps that it’s black and so is she.
One problem is that I can’t take a purse with me, because the bag is supposed to be my purse. So I have to pack a credit card in my pocket for purchases. It looks pretty stupid, but I haven’t been caught yet. Knock on wood.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
My Dog Meets a Segue
I wrote a few days ago about my dog wee-weeing on me during a trip to the beach because she had a bladder infection. At least I think I did – I’ve told the story so many times maybe I just think I wrote it.
That’s the thing about telling stories – and listening to them, too. If you’re with someone else who has a good, newsy story to tell, you end up having to listen to it over and over every time you run into someone new. Gets old.
The person telling the story soon loses track of who they’ve seen and who they’ve told the story to. I try to avoid repeating stories to people by telling a line or two and then saying, “Have I told you this already?” That way the person can quickly get out of hearing it again. I am considerate in this way. Paradoxically, I can be a bee-otch in so many other ways. It’s a conundrum - I think (does anyone know what conundrum means?)
Some people don’t seem to care if you’ve heard the story a million times before. Once some of them get going with a story it’s like trying to stop a runaway train with a kitten. The train is going to plow straight through and the kitten isn’t going to have much to say about it.
But don’t worry, the kitten will be okay. It will hunker down and grab its little claws into the railroad tie and hang on until the entire train passes – all 2,000 cars. The kitten will walk away unscathed and hope it never ends up on THAT particular railroad track again. But it will, if it’s got an elderly relative who can’t hear well and calls to tell the same stories over and over and the kitten CANNOT get a word in edgewise. The kitten has even gone so far as to lay the phone down and taken a leisurely bubble bath and then come back and picked the phone back up to find that the story still isn’t over yet, and during the kitten’s intermission the elderly relative never noticed the kitten was even gone.
Some might say this is a naughty little kitten to lay the phone down, but I say “No harm, no foul,” in this particular case. Especially since the kitten tried more than once to derail the train and was completely ignored or not heard – the kitten couldn’t tell which.
DISCLAIMER: All kittens appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real kittens, living or dead, is purely coincidental. That goes for elderly relatives, too.
After you’ve told a story a few times it’s like reading a script (and when I say “you” I mean “me” but that would look stupid to say, “After me’ve told a story…”) Okay, okay, okay, I’m grasping at humor, here. Actually, that’s not true, I’m in a very playful, humorous mood right now and I find these little silliness’s quite entertaining. I’m also flicking my finger up and down over my lips and making “blub, blub, blub, blub, blub,” sounds that are annoying my dog. What fun!
Speaking of my dog, that’s what this whole story is about, so I’m glad I’ve come back full circle like a (“ah-hem”) dog chasing its tail. (I can segue with the best of ‘em.)
Speaking of segue…..just kidding.
Although I do love a seque but I always type it using a q. Then it gets underlined in red and I think, “Stupid MS Word doesn’t know that seque is a word yet.” I myself just discovered the word a year or two ago and had to Google it to see how it was spelled. That was fun. Segway. Segweigh. Cegway. Psegway. Google finally said, “Did you mean segue, moron?” And I said, “I don’t know, jerk head, because that doesn’t look anything like the way it should be spelled and you might be MAKING IT UP, you freaking anal crevice.”
Google did NOT like that, and we started wrestling in mouse-to-computer combat. I almost got the upper hand, (get it, my hand on the mouse, yuk, yuk, yuk), but my Mac stepped in and closed Safari and said we both had to go to our rooms for a time-out until we cooled off.
Now we’re all friends again. And besides, there wasn’t much to tell about the dog peeing on me that can’t wait until I see you again.
That’s the thing about telling stories – and listening to them, too. If you’re with someone else who has a good, newsy story to tell, you end up having to listen to it over and over every time you run into someone new. Gets old.
The person telling the story soon loses track of who they’ve seen and who they’ve told the story to. I try to avoid repeating stories to people by telling a line or two and then saying, “Have I told you this already?” That way the person can quickly get out of hearing it again. I am considerate in this way. Paradoxically, I can be a bee-otch in so many other ways. It’s a conundrum - I think (does anyone know what conundrum means?)
Some people don’t seem to care if you’ve heard the story a million times before. Once some of them get going with a story it’s like trying to stop a runaway train with a kitten. The train is going to plow straight through and the kitten isn’t going to have much to say about it.
But don’t worry, the kitten will be okay. It will hunker down and grab its little claws into the railroad tie and hang on until the entire train passes – all 2,000 cars. The kitten will walk away unscathed and hope it never ends up on THAT particular railroad track again. But it will, if it’s got an elderly relative who can’t hear well and calls to tell the same stories over and over and the kitten CANNOT get a word in edgewise. The kitten has even gone so far as to lay the phone down and taken a leisurely bubble bath and then come back and picked the phone back up to find that the story still isn’t over yet, and during the kitten’s intermission the elderly relative never noticed the kitten was even gone.
Some might say this is a naughty little kitten to lay the phone down, but I say “No harm, no foul,” in this particular case. Especially since the kitten tried more than once to derail the train and was completely ignored or not heard – the kitten couldn’t tell which.
DISCLAIMER: All kittens appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real kittens, living or dead, is purely coincidental. That goes for elderly relatives, too.
After you’ve told a story a few times it’s like reading a script (and when I say “you” I mean “me” but that would look stupid to say, “After me’ve told a story…”) Okay, okay, okay, I’m grasping at humor, here. Actually, that’s not true, I’m in a very playful, humorous mood right now and I find these little silliness’s quite entertaining. I’m also flicking my finger up and down over my lips and making “blub, blub, blub, blub, blub,” sounds that are annoying my dog. What fun!
Speaking of my dog, that’s what this whole story is about, so I’m glad I’ve come back full circle like a (“ah-hem”) dog chasing its tail. (I can segue with the best of ‘em.)
Speaking of segue…..just kidding.
Although I do love a seque but I always type it using a q. Then it gets underlined in red and I think, “Stupid MS Word doesn’t know that seque is a word yet.” I myself just discovered the word a year or two ago and had to Google it to see how it was spelled. That was fun. Segway. Segweigh. Cegway. Psegway. Google finally said, “Did you mean segue, moron?” And I said, “I don’t know, jerk head, because that doesn’t look anything like the way it should be spelled and you might be MAKING IT UP, you freaking anal crevice.”
Google did NOT like that, and we started wrestling in mouse-to-computer combat. I almost got the upper hand, (get it, my hand on the mouse, yuk, yuk, yuk), but my Mac stepped in and closed Safari and said we both had to go to our rooms for a time-out until we cooled off.
Now we’re all friends again. And besides, there wasn’t much to tell about the dog peeing on me that can’t wait until I see you again.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
A Douse of Reality
My dog was drinking a lot of water and the vet suspected an infection in her female parts so she asked me to get a urine sample. I’m carrying this Tupperware container around the backyard, stooped over following this little dog around because she’s less than a foot tall, saying, “Go potty, go potty.”
She ignored me, too busy checking out the rib bones scattered all over the backyard. It looks like a cannibal picnic ground. When my husband has ribs, he gives the bones to the dog – it cleans her teeth and makes her like him a lot more. Everyone in this family is always trying to get the dog to hang out with them, but she likes me best. I’m her momma.
Finally she squatted and I pushed the container between her legs and managed to get a few drops. We left the sample at the vet on the way to the beach, where we were going to celebrate her birthday. This has been a tradition – the dog always gets to go to the beach around her birthday. We also have cake and ice cream. We like our pets in this house.
On the way to the beach, which is about an hour and a half drive, we kept giving her lots of water because that’s what Google said to do for a bladder infection. We were almost there when I felt something warm in my lap – the same lap the dog was sitting on.
Two gallons of doggie pee gushed out of that beast and ran between my legs before I had the chance to gasp and grab a towel. Oh my gosh, I can’t tell you what an awful feeling it was. It happened in slow motion – the warm feeling, the curious response (hmmm, wonder why the dog got warm all of a sudden….?), the sensation of warm liquid betwixt my legs, the horror when I realized that the dog had peed on me.
The worst of it was that I didn’t have a change of clothes, nor did I have another driver’s seat to replace the one soaking up all that pee. I was sitting in a pee puddle, as it were.
I had to traipse up and down the streets of Seaside with a huge wet stain between my legs – I couldn’t find anything in the stores except sweatpants that said, “SEASIDE” on the ass, and I wasn’t going to spend good money on something I’d only wear once, even if people were pointing and laughing.
It took me most of the day at the beach to find replacement clothes and clean myself and the car. I wonder if I should even be writing about this. It’s pretty disgusting all things considered. The only consolation is that the dog drank so much water that it was probably mostly just water.
We stopped a whole bunch of times on the way home. The dog got tired of getting in and out of the car. Nobody else wanted her on their lap.
I learned a lesson from the whole thing. I wish I could remember it. I guess it’s just that whenever you feel like life is getting you down or things aren’t going well, just think about me getting peed on in my car and maybe that will cheer you up. The reality is that life sometimes throws pee on your crotch, but I want you to know that you’re not alone, sweetie. You’re not alone.
She ignored me, too busy checking out the rib bones scattered all over the backyard. It looks like a cannibal picnic ground. When my husband has ribs, he gives the bones to the dog – it cleans her teeth and makes her like him a lot more. Everyone in this family is always trying to get the dog to hang out with them, but she likes me best. I’m her momma.
Finally she squatted and I pushed the container between her legs and managed to get a few drops. We left the sample at the vet on the way to the beach, where we were going to celebrate her birthday. This has been a tradition – the dog always gets to go to the beach around her birthday. We also have cake and ice cream. We like our pets in this house.
On the way to the beach, which is about an hour and a half drive, we kept giving her lots of water because that’s what Google said to do for a bladder infection. We were almost there when I felt something warm in my lap – the same lap the dog was sitting on.
Two gallons of doggie pee gushed out of that beast and ran between my legs before I had the chance to gasp and grab a towel. Oh my gosh, I can’t tell you what an awful feeling it was. It happened in slow motion – the warm feeling, the curious response (hmmm, wonder why the dog got warm all of a sudden….?), the sensation of warm liquid betwixt my legs, the horror when I realized that the dog had peed on me.
The worst of it was that I didn’t have a change of clothes, nor did I have another driver’s seat to replace the one soaking up all that pee. I was sitting in a pee puddle, as it were.
I had to traipse up and down the streets of Seaside with a huge wet stain between my legs – I couldn’t find anything in the stores except sweatpants that said, “SEASIDE” on the ass, and I wasn’t going to spend good money on something I’d only wear once, even if people were pointing and laughing.
It took me most of the day at the beach to find replacement clothes and clean myself and the car. I wonder if I should even be writing about this. It’s pretty disgusting all things considered. The only consolation is that the dog drank so much water that it was probably mostly just water.
We stopped a whole bunch of times on the way home. The dog got tired of getting in and out of the car. Nobody else wanted her on their lap.
I learned a lesson from the whole thing. I wish I could remember it. I guess it’s just that whenever you feel like life is getting you down or things aren’t going well, just think about me getting peed on in my car and maybe that will cheer you up. The reality is that life sometimes throws pee on your crotch, but I want you to know that you’re not alone, sweetie. You’re not alone.
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